382 de La Rochefoucaud

Anthony wakes up early on a Saturday morning,
Hears the calling of the birds.
But senses the fall waiting for him
at the other end of his coffee cup.

Getting to work and taking the metro.
Faking enthusiasm for the route ahead
He leans over crowded seats,
Breaking his promise not to make eye contact.

His pace is hesitating
As he sits himself down.

Walking into a bar to date a woman.
He’s had to come far,
And perhaps this is fate.
Forget about the songs of love and hate,
And celebrate the union of
this very Universality.





Metro Lines #1

The metro leaves the terminus at midnight, crossing another as it begins its wild journey into the night.

The bright lights, ceramic blue and white, snatch against the tunes darkness of the wild night.

All around are little homes and warm dreams of orange flow and frankincense and heavy wine. Here my soul pervades the carriage and the rubber seals relax a little their guard.

But, snap, bang.

The stopping of the train. And a few moments of peace.

The flashing lights to determine the stop and away we go with the swinging rhythm of a freshly rolling metro train.

Spotlights on concrete walls, like traitors being shot in the night. Here we go again, one says to the next.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, slow down, break.

Announce the end and take a box. This is the last note.

The ads look into the sour space, questioning our presence.

Modern day gods of a millennial generation. You have to keep going until the end, my friend.

Look at the homeless, eating the scraps of yesterday’s chicken dinner, asking for pennies they know they won’t get.

Or at least some of them won’t. Others are crafty, a big pocket of heavy coin, begging poverting, making a way to live. Like we all are.

Stop. I consider the alarm sounds; the machine turns once more. I look ahead at the overhead lights, illuminating title heads that migght one day have been decapitated.

We live in a violent era. And I say welcome.

Montparnasse Bienvenuë.

Line 4, 28th February 1935